


born to die

by brophigenia



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Anal Sex, Book 2: The Dream Thieves, Breathplay, Canon Compliant, Choking, Crying During Sex, Degrading Petnames, Dirty Talk, M/M, Rough Sex, Unhealthy Relationships, Verbal Humiliation, again., and disturbing pet names, listen this is all @glitterghost's fault, more dirtybadwrong than i've written in a hot minute, sex tears
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-20
Updated: 2019-10-20
Packaged: 2020-12-24 11:56:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21099065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brophigenia/pseuds/brophigenia
Summary: “Dreamboy.” K crooned, all sharp teeth and honeyed lust, rubbing his thumb over the ridge of Proko’s collarbone in a familiar move.(AKA, Proko and K get it on, K says some truly fucked up shit, and I continue to be your source for disturbing Dream Pack porn.)





	born to die

**Author's Note:**

> so, @glitterghost got het up about this post: https://cumpeachx.tumblr.com/post/188453604044/ronan-has-definitely-referred-to-noah and then we had this conversation: 
> 
> gg: i don't think ronan would say this to noah bc it's like really offensive?   
bro: yeah that's defs more of something kavinsky would say  
gg: it iss  
bro: in a disturbingly sexual way, probably  
bro: to proko
> 
> And then I banged this out in like twenty minutes. 
> 
> Cut lyrics from Wicca Phase Springs Eternal. Title from Lana Del Rey.

_ tell me, say i’m a god, i don’t feel like one _

_ i feel like i’m stuck here,  _

_ waiting for a text back  _

_ *** _

If he was smarter, or stronger, or even capable of faking it, Ilya Prokopenko would pack his shit and get far fucking away from Joseph Kavinsky. If he could remember his own goddamn  _ name  _ long enough to do it, he would. If he wasn’t distracted all the time except when K was right in front of him, he could make a plan. He could  _ leave.  _ He could go, if he wasn’t— 

“Dreamboy.” K crooned, all sharp teeth and honeyed lust, rubbing his thumb over the ridge of Proko’s collarbone in a familiar move that seemed both convulsive and menacing, now. He had always been transfixed by the spot, and Proko spent long stretches of time being obsessed with dissecting K’s preoccupation to  _ touch _ it, trying to understand. 

Trying to  _ remember, _ because it felt like something he should know. Like something important. Like a mostly-forgotten nightmare, or a faded memory not thought of enough to stay coherent. Like something that happened to someone else, a hundred years ago. Screaming and breaking glass and nothing, the angle wrong, dusty, full of solar flares and warped audio. 

“Sweetness.” K kept going, and pressed a drugging kiss to Proko’s mouth, leaning back with a tut when Proko tried to slip him some tongue, to deepen the kiss, chase his warmth and his taste. 

(God, he loved the way K tasted. Like home. Like life. Like pain.) 

“Please,” Proko begged, shameless, not batting an eye when K tightened his grip and tilted his chin all predatorily curious as a cat, even hungrier for the pleading than he was for Proko’s touch. Agony had always been infinitely more satisfying to K than bliss, and make no mistake. 

“Keep going, Dreamboy.” K egged him on, sly and mean. “Sweet thing. Baby boy.” Proko’s answering moan was stuttery and high, his cock hard in his jeans. Nothing made him feel better than this. Nothing made him feel worse. He was always so cold unless K was touching him. Always wanting it, even when K was away. 

_ (Especially _ then.) 

“K.” He whined, and struggled to break K’s grip so he could kiss him— his lips, his ear, anything. Anywhere. “K, K, please, please.” 

“Needy bitch.” K named him, and then transferred his grip to Proko’s hair, pulling his head back so he could bite at the spot. _The_ _Spot._ Screaming and broken glass and darkness. “Filthy thing.” 

Proko shut his eyes tight and wished it didn’t make him harder, didn’t make him at once colder and  _ hotter. _ Torn up inside, but whole. As if this was what he was meant to be doing. Where he was meant to be. In K’s arms, beneath his hands, bound by his will. 

“I want— K, I want—“ and he couldn’t even name it, couldn’t explain what he wanted. That he wanted K to bite harder, to put his hands around his throat and  _ squeeze,  _ to hurt him. Hurt him, but  _ more _ than that.  _ Possess _ him. Make it better. Make it  _ worse. _ “I don’t know—  _ please—“  _

“Oh,  _ baby.” _ K said, so tender, in the exact way he always did before he did something awful, something terrible, something that would  _ hurt.  _ “You’re just a braindead whore, huh? Just a thing. Just some wormfood dug back up for me to fuck, huh? Only good for that. All mine.” And it was wrong, it was wrong, it was awful, he  _ wasn’t,  _ he  _ wasn’t,  _ but it made the pit of his stomach go  _ molten,  _ made everything in him want to open up and let K  _ in.  _

He nodded mindlessly and kept his eyes shut, trying to burrow somewhere in his mind where he could forget the words. Forget how his legs were spreading wide, how he was moaning wordless and loud and  _ shameless  _ as K worked him open with nothing but spit and the width of his cock, fucking him, finally, blessedly silent, though the word kept bouncing around the inside of his skull with every thrust. 

_ Wormfood, wormfood, wormfood.  _

“Shh,” K said, hushed but loud as a gunshot in the hot, close space between them. “Quit crying, baby. It’s okay.” And Proko hadn’t realized but he  _ was,  _ weeping loud and messy, hitching sobs as K fucked him, even with the way he was so hard he was leaking against his stomach.  _ Wormfood. Wormfood. Wormfood.  _ He couldn’t stop. K sighed and touched the wetness on his face, then the wetness on his belly, putting his fingers into Proko’s mouth to make him taste it and muffle his cries, both. 

It felt like being taken care of and being thrown away, all at once. 

They came like that, Proko biting down reflexively on K’s knuckles until he tasted blood mixed with his own precome and salty tears, K groaning with his chin dropped down to his chest so he could hide his face from view. The way his eyes scrunched shut and his lips trembled and his eyelashes got wet. How he looked so lost, every time. He’d always been ashamed of it, unwilling to admit even the briefest vulnerability. 

“C’mon.” He said, after a while, pulling out from between Proko’s thighs and lips, patting him hard on the cheek with his wet hand, duller than a slap. More dismissive. “We got shit to do.” 

_ Wormfood.  _

“Yeah.” Proko croaked, voice thick. “Coming.” 

_ Wormfood.  _

“Gonna be a good Fourth.” K commented, faux-nonchalantly, as they waited for Jiang to arrive with the booze he’d been sent to the next county over to buy with one of K’s dreamt-up fakes. As if everything was normal. Like Proko didn’t know he was unraveling. Like Proko couldn’t tell. Like he didn’t count the hours K had been spending out with fucking  _ Lynch.  _ Like he didn’t know about the copied Evo, as pretty as K’s own, dropped off with Skov’s help at Dick’s stupid fucking factory. 

“Yeah.” Proko agreed, seething behind his teeth, nodding. “Gonna be.” 

***

_ light another cigarette—  _

_ shadows cast on walls,  _

_ i project my second body as a silhouette.  _

**Author's Note:**

> follow me @ brophigenia.tumblr.com


End file.
